


Four Lives Mean Nothing If They're Not With You

by TheLittlePoet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, met through an online game au, slight violence as bahorel gets into a fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 14:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittlePoet/pseuds/TheLittlePoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel, not the best at video games, did well the first few blockades they passed, but his character got killed by a falling bomb and left Feuilly alone to take out the assassins by himself.<br/>“You know, for someone who can give and take a few punches in real life, you stink at it in games.” Feuilly teased, not moving his eyes from the screen as he killed the targets.</p><p>Bahorel leaned back on the loveseat, extending his legs onto Feuilly’s lap, trying to distract him from the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Lives Mean Nothing If They're Not With You

**Author's Note:**

> So, basically Bahorel and Feuilly meet through an online game, and that's how their relationship starts.

“C’mon, BrawnsOverBrains69! Shoot the alien guy!” Feuilly screamed into his headset, frantically killing aliens in his video game as his screen lit up red, indicating his health lowering to a dangerous status.

“I’m-ugh-trying!” A frustrated voice sounded through the receiving end of the headset. “Crap!”

“No, no, no!” Feuilly moved his fingers over the buttons faster than he’s ever had before, shooting at as many aliens as he could before he died. “You just died didn’t you?”

A deep sigh echoed through the receiver. “Yeah.”

Feuilly’s screen was completely covered in red, and a fast beating heart noise pounded through the speakers of his television. He shot the aliens on the screen, his controler aiming with perfect precision; but he wasn’t fast enough. An alien jumped up on the screen and delivered the fatal shot that finally killed Feuilly’s character.

“Cholera!” Feuilly set down his controler, giving his fingers a break from playing with it. “I just died.”

“Wanna go for round three?” The voice on the other line spoke, sounding almost apologetic. “Or how about a different level?” He chuckled slightly, the sound breezing its way through the headset.

“Yeah, Brawns, I think a different level would be better.” Feuilly sighed and readjusted his seat.

“This time, WytwórcaWachlarzy23, you can choose.” He stressed the name, trying his hardest to pronounce the polish username. They've known each other for a while now, but he still can't seem to get its pronunciation down.

“Alright.” Feuilly scrolled through the menu bar, searching for a different level they can play.

“What does that even mean?” The voice sounded, half-startling Feuilly for its deepness and abruptness.

“My username?” Feuilly selected a level, one with zombies rather than aliens, he’s had enough of aliens to last him a week.

“Yeah, its like, Slovik or something.”

Feuilly smiled at that, letting a breezy laugh through his nose. “It’s Polish, it stands for fan maker.”

“Oh, so you’re Polish? That would explain the cursing in a foreign language.” His voice was rough and naturally loud, it’d taken Feuilly a while to learn to lower his volume when he played online or else his booming voice would blow his ear drums. “I’m Bahorel by the way. I don’t think I ever told you my name.”

“Well, now I know what name to yell when I’m saving your arse. I’m Feuilly.” The screen finally loaded and showed two large metal doors, the words ‘Press Start’ flashing in red on them.

“Hey! I’m not that bad. A couple of times I’ve had to save you.”

“Yeah, after I was singled out by a group of twenty assassins.” Feuilly joked, pressing start. “Look, now’s your chance to redeem yourself. Let’s see how well you can kick zombie butt.” He watched as the screen counted down and the metal doors opened, revealing what looked like an old medical facility, fake digital blood was spilled everywhere on the screen and the occasional body part laid here and there. The graphics in this game are fantastic, Feuilly thought to himself.

“Alright, let’s start killing the undead.” Bahorel made a bad joke, which Feuilly couldn’t help but laugh at.

They played for what seemed like hours, which might’ve been, for when Feuilly looked at the clock after they finished their twelfth game of killing zombies, it read 7:30.

He had a meeting at the Musain at 8:30, and although he wasn’t late, he always liked to go in early and help Enjolras or Courfeyrac with whatever they needed before the meeting.

“Hey, I’ve gotta go, man; I’ve got a meeting in an hour.” He paused the game.

“A meeting? But it’s 7:30, what could you possibly have a meeting for so late?” Bahorel questioned.

“Its a group meeting. We’re sort of activists, rebelling against the government and whatnot.”

“Rebellion? Well, Feuilly, who knew you were so gutsy.” Bahorel joked, the smirk on his face somehow making its way through the headset.

“I beg to differ. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He sounded slightly triumphant.

“And there’s a lot you don’t know about me; like, did you know I love to rebel? A group of rebellious people sounds just like my sort of crowd.” His suave voice flowed.

“Well, we’re always looking for new recruits; anything to further the awareness and spread the word of our cause.” Feuilly couldn’t help but smile; the thought of him reaching out to people for his cause through a video game enlightened him, (who knew the world wasn’t so bad after all?). “We meet at the Café Musain.” Feuilly spoke the directions through the transmitter on his headset, explaining the dates and times of their weekly meetings. He explained what he and his friends do to the best of his ability, but no one can explain, and inevitably pull you in, like Enjolras. 

~*~

Bahorel did the best he could trying to find the café Feuilly told him about. He walked through the dark streets of Paris, cutting through alleys and hoping over fences; he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his favorite fitting hoodie.

He thought he found it, but just as he turned the corner, a figure held out a blade to his throat and shoved him hard against the brick wall.

“Babet! Check him.” The figure holding the knife spoke to another man to his left. “Look, we just want money. Is that so much to ask?”

The person Bahorel assumed to be Babet frisked Bahorel and found his wallet in his back pocket and emptied it, stuffing the money into his own pockets.

“Take what you want, if you’re so pathetic as to go around robbing people then you probably need that money more than I do. Well, whatever money is even in there, I doubt it’s much.” Bahorel relaxed his body, the guys mugging him didn’t seem much as threat to him.

“Oh, we don’t need the money either,” A third voice spoke up, “we’ve got plenty of that from pickpocketing the bourgeois. It’s our poor friend Azelma that needs it, we’re just teaching her how to get it.” A tall slender man with a top hat lit up up a cigarette and got off the wall he’d been leaning on, revealing a small girl covered in dirty rags behind him.

“Hey, leave her alone.” Bahorel felt sympathy for the little girl known as Azelma, rage filled him and he threw off the man holding the knife to his throat and punched Babet square in the jaw with a solid hit.

Azelma screamed and ran deeper into the alley, her bare feet stepping on the cobbled path and splashing in small puddles. She disappeared behind a corner and left Bahorel with broken jawed Babet, stunned knife wielder, and cackling top hat guy.

“Montparnasse, he’s strong shou-” 

“Oh, don’t be such a chienne, Brujon. It’s the three of us against his sorry arse.” Top hat guy, Bahorel assumed was Montparnasse, cut off the knife wielder, Brujon. 

“It’s your choice fellows.” Bahorel cracked his neck with a grin. It’d been a while since he’s gotten himself into a fight and his fists yearned for the hard feeling of skin on skin, and he sometimes missed the sound of cracking bone.

Babet charged Bahorel from the side, pulling out a knife from some unseen compartment and aimed for Bahorel’s neck, but Bahorel held out his arm in defense and he missed, tearing the sleeve of Bahorel’s hoodie and cutting his forearm slightly open.

“This was my favorite jacket.” Bahorel spoke, inspecting the tear in his sweater. He sounded bizarrely calm with a wicked smile appearing on his face, flashing his ivories.

Bahorel grabbed ahold of Babet’s collar and smashed his unusually large fists into his face as Brujon jumped on his back from behind, still holding the knife, and sliced through Bahorel’s neck, barely missing his jugular. He didn’t have a proper angle or grip to really do much damage, but he just poked a sleeping bear with a stick.

Bahorel threw Babet to the floor - having finished rearranging his face - like a piece of trash. His strong hands gripped Brujon’s head and flipped him over his shoulder, dropping his lower half against the cobbled street with ease.

Grunts of pain and struggle escaped Brujon’s mouth as he fought to get free of Bahorel’s grip on his head.

Babet got up and landed a few pointed punches in Bahorel’s directions as he held a chokehold on Brujon. Bahorel released Brujon just as Babet threw a solid punch to his skull, throwing his body against the brick wall, causing his head to collide with the wall behind him. Blood dripped down Bahorel’s face and he coughed, his saliva gaining a taste of iron.

A battered Brujon and Babet stood up, both wielding knives and ready for another round with Bahorel.

“That’s enough.” Montparnasse spoke up. He flicked his finished cigarette butt onto the road and rubbed it out with the heel of his boot. “I have a date to get to, and I’d prefer not arriving all bloodied from having to clean up the mess you’ve gotten yourselves into.”

“Aw, what’s the rush? It was just getting fun.” Bahorel joked with a crooked smile, spitting a mixture of blood and saliva on the floor before Montparnasse’s feet.

“I’m sure we’ll see you again.” Montparnasse spoke slow and even, his voice sounding cold. He turned on his heels and casually walked down the alley, towards the direction Azelma had run.

Brujon and Babet, bloodied and bruised, gave a menacing look to Bahorel and slowly walked away, following behind Montparnasse.

Bahorel couldn’t help but laugh a deep hearty laugh. He bent his head back and let the laugh roll off his lips. A sort of sadness filled him as he didn’t get to fight for as long as he’d hoped, but if Montparnasse was right, he’ll soon get his time to quarrel some more with them.

Bahorel picked up his emptied wallet from the floor and slid it back into his back pocket. I guess the Café isn’t here. He thought to himself as he searched through his pockets for his cell. The clock on the screen read 8:45. 

He continued walking through the streets, determined to find the café and hoping there was a bar nearby, in case he needed to bounce and get out to catch a drink, (yeah, a drink sounds really good right about now).

He stopped short of a building with the words Musain on them, (it looked like it could be a café from the outside). The name sounded familiar, but Bahorel, having too much faith in his memory, didn’t write down the name of the café to make sure. He pushed past the doors and was surprised at what he saw. What he was expecting to have chalkboards and coffee beans actually had a long bar against the nearest wall. The bar counter was almost full, the beginnings of the nightlife starting to awaken. Bahorel hollered for a whiskey across the counter towards the curly haired mixologist. 

“Geez man, getting the night started early I see.” The mixologist walked over, handing Bahorel his whiskey. “You know, there’s a doctor in that back room over there?” He pointed to a hallway which led to a closed door in the back of the room.

“Nah, just a few drinks’ll get me right back on my feet.” Bahorel took a swig of the whiskey, enjoying the slight burn it left in the back of his throat. “Say, you wouldn’t know where I can find this café, would you? I’m supposed to meet this guy, he says he and his friends are a group of rebellious activists. Thought I might check it out. Anyways, I think I’m lost.” He took another drink. “But, they say you find all the best places when you’re lost.”

“Actually, I think you found what you’re looking for. I’m Grantaire, but you can call me R. I like to consider myself part of that group of activists, but this month I’ve been taking extra shifts and haven’t been able to go to the meetings. They’re actually down there.” Grantaire pointed to the hallway again. “Hey Éponine! Cover me for a sec, I’ve gotta go ruffle some of Apollo’s feathers.” Grantaire spoke to the female mixologist at the other end of the bar.

“I’m Bahorel.” Bahorel picked up his glass and followed Grantaire as he rounded the counter and led him to the back room.

Grantaire knocked three times on the door before slowly opening it and popping his head in.

“What do you want, R? We’re in the middle of a meeting, can’t you interrupt someone else with your idiotic remarks?” A sharp authoritative voice spoke from the other side of the door.

“Aw, baby, you know I get all tingly when you talk to me like that.” Grantaire gave a mischievous wink. “Sorry, but I believe Dr. Joly’s assistance is needed.” Grantaire opened the door more, showing off a bloodied Bahorel.

“Oh my.” A short man with glasses quickly got up from his seat and rushed over to Bahorel. He took Bahorel by the arm and led him to a round table in the corner of the small room to tend to his wounds.

“Mind sending another whiskey? Looks like I’m out.” Bahorel held out his glass to Grantaire who grabbed it and walked out with a nod.

“Oh hey, I’m looking for someone.” Bahorel whispered to Joly as he was inspecting the cuts on his body.

“I don’t understand how you can even be looking for someone, that eye’s all swollen.” Joly gently pressed against Bahorel’s back, making sure everything was properly aligned.

“Ha, good one, Doc.” Bahorel softly chuckled. “His name’s Feuilly. I’m not really sure what he looks like, so if you could just point him out, that’d be nice.” He smiled crookedly.

“Feuilly!” Joly called, turning his attention towards the group. A ginger turned around in his seat, looking surprised, but once his eyes met Bahorel’s, a sort of recognition clicked in him. He got up from his spot and walked over to where Joly and Bahorel were seated.

“So, you’re a ginger. Looks good on you, Poland.” Bahorel gave a sly smile.

“God, even in real life I’ve gotta save your arse.” He laughed. “I’ll go get a towel.” He walked over to a closet not far from the table and grabbed a few small towels.

“Looks like it’s nothing serious, that cut on your neck is gonna irritate you like hell though, but other than that, nothing too deep. Your cuts just need to be cleaned then bandaged.” Joly stood up with a smile and walked out of the room back to the main room which had the bar.

“Crap, what did you get yourself into? You fall into a well on the way here?” Feuilly quipped with a smirk.

“Actually,” He stressed the world, drawling it out. “I got mugged.” 

Feuilly snorted, not even trying to hide his amusement. “But you’re huge; like, holy cow, I didn’t even expect you to be so big.”

“Laugh all you want, but I showed those guys. Gosh, they were jerks. They even had a little girl with them.” Bahorel’s naturally loud voice echoed through the room, gaining the attention of everyone in it as he answered the question that filled everyone’s minds. “I would’ve been glad to hand them over my money, God knows they probably needed it more than I did, but then I saw that girl and got angry.” He sighed. “Then they tore my jacket and I got angrier.” He lifted his arm, showing his torn jacket to Feuilly as if he needed proof.

“You get angry over a torn jacket?” The sharp voice spoke again, this time directed to Bahorel. At some point, he’d stopped talking and everyone in the room was listening to Bahorel.

“Hey, blondie, it was my favorite one.” Bahorel defended himself, sitting slack in the chair and lifting his arms up.

“It’s Enjolras.” The blond, Enjolras, spoke. His sharp voice cutting. “Have you ever thought of directing your anger towards something more worthwhile?” He walked towards Bahorel, almost as if he was floating.

“Chastising people on their decisions again, Enjolras?” Grantaire walked back through the room with Joly, heading towards the table in the corner where Feuilly and Bahorel were seated. He held a large bottle of whiskey and a bowl in his hands as Joly walked beside him with a first aid kit.

“You always pick the best times to interrupt, Grantaire.” Enjolras scolded.

“I try, Apollo.” Grantaire sent a mocking smile towards Enjolras and set the bowl and whiskey down on the table.

“There was no rubbing alcohol.” Joly explained as Bahorel eyed the large bottle of whiskey.

“And here I thought we were going to have a party.” Bahorel sounded almost sad, but lightened up as Grantaire pulled a glass from the bowl.

Joly opened the bottle and poured some in the glass for Bahorel to drink, and emptied the bottle of about a fourth of its contents into the bowl. He grabbed the towels Feuilly had left on the table and dipped them into the bowl to start cleaning the dried blood from Bahorel.

Bahorel took off his sweater to throw away and let Joly clean the cut on his arm. He flinched slightly when the alcohol burned its way into his cuts, but he’s used to the burn, having cuts deeper than these in need of cleaning before.

He sat there the rest of the meeting, tempted to scratch the cut on his neck, but he knew the bandages would hold straight and didn’t want to undo them.

The meeting ended about half an hour after and Bahorel was amazed. He never imagined there to be a group like this. He was completely sold to the idea of helping the people the government refused to help, or even acknowledge.

Once the tall fellow with glasses, who Bahorel learned to be Combeferre, spoke about riots and rallies, it was as if he was speaking to Bahorel on an emotional level.

“So, what’d you think?” Feuilly asked once the meeting was over and they were walking down the street.

“You guys are freaking awesome.” Bahorel sounded slightly excited. “Riots? Fighting? Escaping the police, all the while helping people who actually need it? I never would’ve thought a cute ginger would answer my prayers.” He bantered mindlessly.

“Wait. You’re…” Feuilly drifted off, trying to process what he just said.

“What?” Bahorel stopped, confused.

“You just said I’m cute? So, you’re..?” He drifted off again, still trying to understand.

“Hella gay?” Bahorel rubbed the back of his neck with an uneasy smile. “Yeah.”

Feuilly blushed, the pink hue covering his freckled face. “Me too.” He smiled at Bahorel. “And, for the record, you’re a lot cuter than I imagined… And taller. A lot taller.”

“And you’re a lot redder than I imagined, Poland. But red’s nice.” He grabbed Feuilly’s hand and they continued walking down the street.

~*~

Before he knew it, Feuilly found himself staring at the building of his flat, not entirely sure how they got there. He’d been lost in conversation with Bahorel, both mocking each other endlessly on the way. He found it easy to talk to him, almost comforting coming from his lonely background. Feuilly never had time to romanticize about anything; before, his life was only about surviving foster homes and trying to earn enough money to leave. He’d finally saved up enough by his eighteenth birthday and moved out. Soon after he found himself working exhausting shifts just to pay the bills, but it was worth it, knowing he was finally out. He eventually found Les Amis de l’ABC and devoted the rest of his time to them and helping the cause.

Fast forward a few years, and Feuilly, with the help of his friends, is finally able to take a break from the excruciating hours of work. He still works, being totally devoted to what he does, but at least now he loves what he does and he’s good at it.

Feuilly looked to Bahorel with an unsure smile. “Would you like to come in? I could probably kick your arse in video games some more.”

Bahorel smiled at that, letting a genuine laugh escape his lips. “Sure, but when I beat you, don’t ask for a rematch.”

They walked into the building and Feuilly led them to his flat. He turned on his lights once inside. “Should I give you the grand tour and claim my victory? Or give you the opportunity to lose?”

“A tour would be nice, so I know where you’ll be when you go crying to the bathroom after I put you in your place.”

Feuilly showed Bahorel around his double room apartment as they continued to jeer at each other. The final stop was Feuilly’s tv/ gaming room where he usually holds movie nights with friends.

He turned on the lights and revealed a white walled room covered in movie posters. The movies displayed were classics, ranging from Jaws to The Godfather, and even including the original Dracula. 

Feuilly turned on the station and handed Bahorel a controller as they sat down on the large loveseat.

They started playing on a level with assassins, trying to navigate through a town avoiding bombs and bullets flying in their direction as they searched for the group of assassins they needed to take out.

Bahorel, not the best at video games, did well the first few blockades they passed, but his character got killed by a falling bomb and left Feuilly alone to take out the assassins by himself.  
“You know, for someone who can give and take a few punches in real life, you stink at it in games.” Feuilly teased, not moving his eyes from the screen as he killed the targets.

Bahorel leaned back on the loveseat, extending his legs onto Feuilly’s lap, trying to distract him from the game. “You know, you’re even cuter when you try to focus on the game. Your face kinda scrunches up and you probably don’t even know you’re doing it, but you bite your lower lip, which I don’t know if you realize or not but it’s really alluring.” He blatantly speaks.

Feuilly can’t help but blush; he pauses the game and sets his controler down on the coffee table. “Get your legs off me, you jerk.” He playfully shoves Bahorel’s legs off his thighs, but they instantly return with a laugh.

“C’mon, Poland, I was really comfortable. Go ahead and play, I like watching you.”

Feuilly shoves Bahorel’s legs off his thighs once more and gets up, moving over to throw himself on top of Bahorel’s body as he let out an oof. “Still comfortable?” Feuilly asked, reaching for the controller on the table and unpausing the game.

Bahorel readjusted himself beneath Feuilly’s weight and poked his head over his shoulder, playfully biting at it. “Now I am.” He reached his hands up to absently run his fingers through Feuilly’s hair as he watched his character on the screen.

“Is that your controller? Or are you just happy to see me?” Feuilly asked jokingly. “But seriously, can you move your controller? It’s digging into my back.”

Bahorel rubbed at the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed. “Heh, let’s just say I put down the controller a long time ago.” He motioned to the floor, where the controller sat beside the large loveseat.

Feuilly’s blush glowed bright, reaching his ears and burning his skin. He paused the game, dropping the controller on the table, and slowly turned around to face Bahorel who was grinning a cheesy smile.

~*~

The music of the pause menu played in a continuous loop in the background, but neither Bahorel nor Feuilly paid any mind to it. Their attention was only directed to each other and, the tight grips they held.

Bahorel’s wandering hands roamed over Feuilly’s freckled body, stopping every now and then to leave small kisses in their place.

Feuilly shivered at the touch of Bahorel’s strong hands over his body, and pressed his body against Bahorel’s.

They moved together, generating moans to escape their breathless mouths. Heat emanated from them, making the small space of the game room to raise in temperature.

Their sensuous escapade ended in shaky breaths as both men laid on the loveseat, not even bothering to turn off the game.

Feuilly left tender kisses on each and every one of Bahorel’s cuts and bruises. “You know, I think I secretly like this look on you.” He planted a kiss on Bahorel’s lips. “But that doesn’t mean I’d want you to go around getting into fights just to get yourself beat up."

“No promises, Poland.” Bahorel winked and kissed Feuilly.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I never wrote these two before, they're precious. I hope you guys enjoyed it! ^~^


End file.
